The decision was made for him. An arm circled from behind and pressed a blade against his throat, sour breath and a harsh whisper scraping at his ear.
‘What prize have we here?’
‘I saw nothing, I swear it to you.’
‘Yet you quake as though you did.’
The stablehand trembled in dumb confusion. ‘I was sleeping, unaware of things. I beg you, spare me.’
‘Verdict is already reached.’
‘No harm is done, you have my word. On my life, I will stay silent.’
‘We believe such promise.’ The officer of the Lord of Arsur planted a Judas kiss lightly on his cheek.
News spread and men came running. They had heard of murder and of heroism, of the Lord of Arsur confronting and slaying a host of heathen Assassins. It was not idle rumour. What they found was a scene of contained carnage and a noble lord bloodied and victorious in his duties. The Lord of Arsur could do no wrong.
‘Again, young Otto.’
The sixteen year-old pranced forward, whirling a quarterstaff in concerted effort to break the defences of the friar. He had been taught by the best, had learned the art of fighting with sword or stave, the tricks and acrobatics that would allow him to fell a bullock let alone a ragged Franciscan of well-advanced years. But so far Brother Luke remained impervious to attack.
‘I thought the Church more welcoming, friar.’
‘It may yet upend the rich and unrepentant sinner.’ The priest lazily rolled the haft between his palms. ‘You must work with your hands to know how to use them. Pretend you are a mean vagabond of the road and not a delicate princeling from a castle.’
‘You will have delicacy served down your throat, Brother Luke.’
‘Oh?’ The Franciscan smiled and lowered his weapon.
‘Put up your guard. I am more practised than a Perfect and his slovenly band of Cathars.’
‘Though clumsier than a blind mule with a missing leg.’
‘You slight me.’
‘I goad you for a purpose.’
‘And what purpose is that, Brother Luke?’ Otto spun the staff adroitly in his hands. ‘To make your sputtering apology the sweeter to my ears?’
‘To jangle your nerves; to test you; to rouse you to fury and misjudgement.’
‘I am as cool as any snowcap on a mountain.’
‘As likely to melt away.’
The friar lifted his heavy stick. Tips met and eyes engaged. Mock combat could be an intense and hard-fought game.
‘Prepare to be vanquished, Brother Luke.’
‘Instead I shall prepare your landing.’
Riposte provoked charge. The young noble moved on his opponent, working his staff in a clattering rally of strike and counter-thrust. They battled on, trading blows, the friar conceding not an inch of ground, appearing to expend not a scrap of effort. Otto pummelled in vain. The staff went airborne, spinning from his grasp.
‘Less haste and more thought, Otto of Alzey.’ Brother Luke hoisted his winning stave across his shoulders. ‘Should you lose your balance, you are dead. Should you lose your arms, you are dead.’
‘I will remember it.’ Otto leaned on his knees, gasping breathless from exertion.
‘Impetuousness is the finish of many young men. To dance well you must learn the steps.’
‘I cannot match you in mastery of the staff.’
‘Yet you may improve.’
‘That is my intent, Brother Luke.’
‘Speed, cunning . . .’ The friar sidestepped as Otto flew at his midriff, tripping him into a tumbling sprawl. ‘And judgement. These are concerns for the eager pupil.’
Lying winded on his back, Otto managed a croaking laugh. ‘I concede.’ The end of a staff tapped on his chest.
‘We shall never foretell fate, so prepare for all instance.’
Brother and sister sat beside each other and watched the display. Here on the coastal plain before Livorno they could rest awhile beneath a tree, could bind their feet and gaze at an autumn-marbled sky stooping towards a darkening sea. More miles had been covered, another calendar month entered. Behind them, the rugged seaward tail of the Apennines, the generosity of Sarzana, the brooding wariness of Pisa. Ahead, the trudging pace towards Venturino, Grosseto, Civitavecchia and Rome. New words and places to encounter, fresh incident and danger to greet.
Kurt rested his head against his hands and closed his eyes. There was no escaping the absence of his friends, no ignoring the dull pain that reminded him of their loss. At times he thought he saw them, could sense them at his shoulder. But like ghosts they would vanish when he turned. Of ten who had set out from their village, only he and Isolda remained. Perhaps they were touched by God, or maybe they were cursed. He missed the tomfoolery of Hans, the steadfastness of Egon, the knowingness of Albert. He grieved for the tinkling voice of little Lisa and the optimism and chattering mirth of Zepp and Achim. Goatherd, blacksmith, bird-scarer, a generation gone.
‘Why do they rehearse combat when we go on peaceful pilgrimage, Kurt?’
The youngster shrugged. ‘You heard Brother Luke. We prepare for all events.’
‘But Nikolas in Cologne told us there would be no fighting, that we would reach Palestine with words of love.’
‘He told us also that the seas would part.’
‘It is not the same.’
‘Hospitallers nurse the sick and carry swords. Templars pray as monks and wear chain-mail.’ He turned on his side to look at her. ‘Would you prefer we were captured by Cathars or submitted to the blades of the killers who slew Hans?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Whether it is Gunther or a band of heretics we face, I am glad for the friar and Otto beside us, happy they sharpen their skills.’
‘We would for certain be in worse circumstance without them.’
Her look softened, her breath grew more shallow, as she traced the movements of the young noble. She could never criticize Otto for long.
‘He is a lord and we peasants, Isolda. I cannot see him taking you as his bride.’
‘I may dream, Kurt. I will let you visit when I dwell in a castle and sit in the great hall on a throne.’
‘Will you throw me in a dungeon for claiming you a fool?’
She smiled, her attention still resting on the older boy. ‘I would forgive you if my lord and husband demanded it.’
‘Search elsewhere, Isolda.’
‘He is so fine a boy.’
‘Egon too was fine, was loyal and devoted, humble and kind. You wronged him, Isolda.’
She glanced at him, contrition reddening her cheeks, hurt and shame flickering in her eyes. ‘Would that I could ask his forgiveness.’ Her hand reached out for his, pressing his fingers between her own. ‘When did my little brother turn so wise?’
He had no answer. Yet he was aware that he had changed, that he was not the happy-go-lucky child who had stood in the square before the great cathedral of Cologne. Too much had been lost, and too much learned. What he had once dismissed as mere escapade, as chance to discover and strike out from his village, had evolved into more. It was a feat of endurance and faith invested with the cries of others and the lives of his companions. He owed it to them to continue, to see what they no longer could, to carry back what they had sought. One hundred and eighty miles from Rome. A pilgrimage and crusade with meaning, after all. Whatever he faced, he would reach the Holy Land and bring home the True Cross.
Trumpets called, cymbals clashed, and a thousand infantry marched in step across the square. Their commander-in-chief Saphadin, Sultan of Damascus, reviewed them from his balcony dais. Flanked by senior emirs, resplendent in his robes of state, he knew the meaning of presentation, the importance of majesty and spectacle. A ruler could last beyond usefulness and life-expectancy if his nerve held and his image impressed. Perception could quell unrest, awe put down a coup. Armed troops drawn from Mosul and the Jezireh also helped.
‘What splendid sight, al-Adil.’
&nb
sp; The elderly leader stared down his aquiline nose at the scene. ‘It will soon be the turn of the horsemen, and then you shall see something to inspire.’
‘Already the infidels cannot match us in standing force. They will tremble, cower at our advantage in men and arms.’
‘I have yet to witness it. But should it cause them to abandon their folly, to pause in their blind action, I will be glad enough.’
‘Abandon? Pause?’ The officer scoffed. ‘Al-Adil, they send the Assassins against us, wage war on our caravans and trade, unleash their Templar and Hospitaller madmen against our defenceless villages and towns.’
‘I am aware of the tally.’
A Turcoman replied. ‘You are aware also, al-Adil, of the silence of these Frankish dogs. They will not speak, do not intend to parley.’
‘And what is our message and intent? We already pull men from the fields and farms, strip cities of their garrisons, frighten our Moslem rivals in Aleppo with our gathering of strength.’
‘It is good to scare them, al-Adil.’
‘We scare ourselves, convince ourselves there is no alternative to armed engagement. Effects may be unforeseen, results beyond our control.’
Another general spoke. ‘For thirty years I have served your family in peace and combat, al-Adil. I know the devils of Outremer as well as any, have stared in their eyes, walked on their corpses, planted banners on their ramparts, charged their ranks at Hattin. The sword is the only message they understand.’
‘They comprehend too the subtlety of power, the weighing of risk, the exercise of caution. Why else did they entreat and sign for peace?’
‘To purchase time we can ill afford.’ The old military campaigner fixed his leader with accusatory glare. ‘We know crusade will come. Let us strike now, rip the landing-stages from beneath their feet.’
‘You may pay on the battlefield with your life the consequence of error. Mistake on my part, and I forfeit the kingdom and the sacred lands of Islam.’
‘Your brother Salah ad-Din would not have hesitated to right wrongs and avenge slights.’
‘My brother Salah ad-Din was advised by me.’
Saphadin raised a hand and his coterie fell silent. He welcomed debate, the guidance of his closest. But he would not permit them to stray into outright dissent, would not accept the heedless ways and untrammelled aggression of his cavalry son al-Mu’azzam. Bellicosity had to be tempered by judgement; the unleashing of punishment raids on Acre and Haifa and the outlying estates of the Christian nobility should ever be twinned with negotiation. He was sixty-nine years old, John of Brienne sixty-four. Old men could talk; aged rulers could compromise. Nothing was too late.
For a moment he appeared hypnotized by the rhythmic pace below, by the crash of armour-scaled feet on compacted earth.
The trance broke. He turned, his eyes seeking out and finding a portly hajib, a chamberlain, loitering silent and diplomatic in the background.
‘Take cavalry escort and proceed under flag of truce to the infidel regent John of Brienne. Demand explanation, unearth the truth. If we are to go to war, it shall not be until we exhaust the trail of possibility and accord.’
Bowing low, the chamberlain retreated to his task.
In Acre, the broken body of a stablehand was discovered lying at the base of a high fortification known as the Accursed Tower.
Chapter 9
From beneath the cover of a wide-brimmed hat, a wayside beggar observed their arrival in the city of Rome. They seemed weary, justifiably so for young and old who had journeyed far and suffered the privations of the road. Even the two horses plodded with the somnolent tread of sleepwalkers. Tired travellers were unwary, and that was to the good. They would not be anticipating threat. There was Otto of Alzey, young noble, principal target. Still a thing of rare and fine looks, his face begrimed yet gracious and cheerful in its aspect. A pair of children accompanied him, a boy and girl, sole survivors of their party. And with them was a weathered and tattered friar of no consequence. Hardly a group to impress, insignificant but for the fact that Otto of Alzey should not be alive, that Otto of Alzey was destined to perish here in the streets of this city. He and his companions were heading south-east, and the lone Assassin began to follow.
‘Mind your step, you cur!’
He dodged a barrel and found himself facing the choleric eyes and wrathful tongue of a cooper. The man was being unreasonable, took the submissive dip of his head as excuse for unleashing further oaths. The Assassin backed away. He wanted no argument or attention; he was bent on more important venture. But the barrel-maker did not accept the generous offer of continued existence, seemed to think whipping a vagrant fine sport. He raised his fists and filled the ground this miserable stranger and beggar had conceded. That beggar now viewed him through narrowing eyes.
Shouting and belligerence were so uncouth. In a second, he could break the arms and collarbone of the man; in two, could drive his nose through his head; in three, could hook out the eyes; in four, could castrate. A clean down-stamp and the windpipe, the spine or the chest would be crushed. All in the line of duty and professionalism.
Deftly, in spirit of supplication, he grabbed the wrist of the craftsman, all the while pleading and sobbing for mercy. Pressure intensified. The man gasped, whimpering and falling to his knees as bone and cartilage compressed, as severed nerves fired pain direct to a disbelieving brain. The Assassin walked on, leaving behind a crippled mass that had lost its livelihood with use of a hand.
The Rhineland youth and his friends were making steady progress, the heads of his grey mare and black stallion nodding above the street throng. There could only be one destination, the Lateran Palace, home to Innocent III, the Sun Pontiff, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ, greatest and most crusading of all the popes in history. Audience and blessing were what every pilgrim craved. Each to his own calling. The killing he himself intended was not merely for religion or his sheikh, nor solely to please the Lord of Arsur. Since the slaying of his fellow agents on the road beyond Chambéry, it had become more pressing and personal. He would inflict vengeance with a long knife, would stick it to young Otto when the time arose. Ignored in the multitude, the beggar maintained his shuffling pace.
Had he waited at his station on the verge of the city, he would have seen later that day the arrival of a different and larger group of dust-shrouded pilgrims. Like the Assassin, they too were disguised. The Perfect was bringing his Believers to a place they hated with all their might. But when in Rome . . .
‘Rise, my children.’
Cupping their chins in his hands, Pope Innocent III smiled and gently encouraged Kurt and Isolda to their feet. Trembling and wordless they complied, their eyes bright and wide in trance-like amazement, their tongues tied in trepidation. Before them was the most powerful figure on earth, a priest prince in papal tiara and raiments of white. He could launch wars and absolve sin, excommunicate kings and converse with God. None could challenge his authority without facing eternal damnation. So brother and sister remained silent and stared at the ground.
Innocent surveyed them, his voice soft and German fluent. ‘I am higher than man and yet lower than God. It is He alone you must fear.’ He bent towards Isolda. ‘What is your age, daughter?’
‘I believe fourteen years, Reverend Lord.’
‘And you, my son?’
‘Twelve summers, Reverend Lord,’ Kurt managed to mutter.
‘Too young for such long journey, for the perils and rigours you have doubtless faced.’
‘We find Rome, Reverend Lord, intend with our souls and strength to reach Jerusalem.’
‘Ah, Jerusalem.’ Innocent nodded. ‘A name to fill our hearts with both bitterness and joy. Jerusalem is lost. Jerusalem has resisted capture by the Christian princes of Europe, by Cœur de Lion himself.’
Isolda spoke. ‘We are not knights or princes and have no army, Reverend Lord. But we are the young and humble, the ones who carry love for Our Saviour to the lands of the Sar
acen. They will see the truth of what we speak.’
‘I have seen many lost who hold the same conviction.’
‘Bless us, I beseech you, Reverend Lord.’
‘My daughter, I will not order you back to whence you came, nor deny you the sanction for which you ask. Each of us has a quest, attempts to walk closer with God. But pilgrimage is for the grizzled and old such as Brother Luke, for those who stumble towards their end, rather than virtuous youth so early in their life.’
Summoning his courage, still gazing downward, Kurt spoke up. ‘Reverend Lord, Holy Father, we are the two left from our village. Our friends all are gone. There is nothing left to return for. We must continue, must travel to the Holy Land.’
‘I commend your valour and admire your odyssey, my son.’
‘Preachers told us that only the pure at heart will conquer the infidel, will reunite the True Cross to Christendom.’
‘They must have been persuasive.’
‘We still march, Reverend Lord.’
‘Although it is my decree and indulgence that send so many thousand forth, I weep for their piteous torment.’
‘There is Otto and Brother Luke to guard us, Reverend Lord.’
‘Is that so?’ The pontiff raised his eyes to the friar and the noble boy before patting the shoulder of the youngster. ‘Then I shall hold them to their duty and will blame them should they fail it.’
Kurt blinked, imagined he was tricking himself, inventing the scene. He had never before met a pope, never entered a palace or seen such things, never witnessed the richness and display. There were the treasures and tapestries, the painted frescoes and reliquaries. There were the berobed prelates and richly dressed ambassadors, the white habits and emblazoned blood-red crosses of the Templars, the black mantles and eight-pointed crosses of the Hospitallers. This was the centre of the world, of the known universe. And he and Isolda, Otto and Brother Luke, stood at its inner core.
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